Balmas

Breathless Dead

They had to make it a hunt, didn't they?

Had to come in with spears and nets and cries of exultation. Had to hound her like an animal, braying with excitement, from one end of the ship to the other. Had to scramble and whoop, had to fan out, to pincer, to chase.

And now that the moment to strike is finally here, who better to finish her off than the one person who least wants Mynx harmed?

Galnius probably thinks she's doing Alexa a favor. Granting her honor, privilege, prestige.

But it shouldn't have worked, is the thing! Mynx is better than this. Mynx should run circles around them, should vanish like smoke, should disrupt their formations with a wink and a laugh. Alexa keeps looking at the phalanx around her and half expecting one of them to blow her a kiss before disappearing. She should have Galnius profiled and wrapped round her finger, not be backed into a glorified closet!!

Something's wrong. Mynx is off her game, and Alexa's going to find out why.

Galnius grunts as Alexa's spear and shield are shoved into her hands. Does Galnius know the privilege she's been given? View it as a usurper taking her spot? But damned if Alexa's going into this armed. Ha! As if not having a weapon somehow makes the phalanx behind her less threatening, less of an armed mob determined to make her a gift to a princess!

Still, she hesitates as she approaches the closet door. Swallows. Hems a bit, holds a hand up to knock. Decides to compromise, one hand flat on the door, feeling its grain as if she could feel the shapeshifter behind it.

"I am surprised to see you aboard the Plousios," she murmurs. Is she loud enough for Mynx to hear? Is she listening on the other side of the door? Surprised to see her among the gathered hunt? "In truth, I would have thought you to be back with Bella."

Unless... Unless this is the trick, is that Mynx is the distraction, and Bella is also aboard. And any moment, she's going to pop out of a vent, Redana in her arms-- but no. There'd be nowhere to go, not unless she plans to fight an army for command of a ship she cannot run.

Something's definitely wrong.

"Do you want to talk about it, Mynx?"

Breathless Dead

Isty must think her so weak.

Look at her, clinging to Isty like a shipwreck survivor to a liferaft. Didn't take more than scratches in that entire fight--no gashes, no missing limbs, nothing even that won't be fixed with a rasp and some clay. Look at the mighty warrior, faint after the battle! See the Pallas, clinging to her like a teddy bear! This is she who would court a Princess, showing her martial prowess?

But damn her eyes, she needs to have that beacon. That anchor, that sign that she hasn't entirely fucked up. She didn't hare off for sex, ignore her duty, fail to find out the plan, get treated like the rube she is! Needs to press her face against that shoulder, feel that press of thin fur, that warmth against her stone, and hope she isn't entirely ruined.

Hah. Needs to talk to Isty about Ares. What has she done? You know, not too much, just betrayed everything she was raised to believe, touched that live-wire. And worst of all, can't bring herself to regret it. Wants it again, at the same time as she hates herself for wanting it.

***

Alexa returns to a ship full of ghosts.

That's Domingo, the old artillery master! But-- no, no, the beak is right, but the coloration is subtly different. Spots in the wrong places, tattoos missing. A son? Grandson, maybe? And she'd swear up and down that the one carrying the crates into the cargo hold is the spitting image of--but no. No, if it's her old friend Agarra, there's no recognition in their eyes.

That's the pattern, every time. Alexa starts. A comrade! She takes a few steps, and details filter in. Different styles, different feathers, different voices, and everywhere, that blank stare that says "I don't know you."

It's.

It's probably for the best.

Breathless Dead

She could kill her, a desperate voice chimes in. Yeah, that's right! That's the right move! That's the madness of war! That'd show them not to mess with them! That'd keep them away! Don't push us around, don't try to kill them! Look, she's even taken her helmet off, the cocky bastard! She's as good as promised to keep coming for them until you or she is dead, so why not? It's not like you'd be more of a murderer than when you started the day!

And it'd show them that she's different than they expected! See, look at her! Invoked Ares in a fight, and nothing exploded! Except the oven. And some scorched power conduits, yeah, and most of the cookery! And she didn't care! She'd fought to win, with all her strength, and hadn't hurt anyone! She could keep this! Could still be like this, if she could just show them!

What a fool she's been. All this time, all these years, she thought she was made of stone, but now she sees the truth! What else could she be made out of but lead? It sits in her chest like a hollow, an emptiness radiating out into the rest of her. It drags her spear to the ground, weighs down her feet, halts her pacing dead.

Surely there has to be a way to bring it back. Invoke Ares again! Bring him back! Let the warmth suffuse her, let her dance without cares, strike without worrying, think without--!

It's like caging smoke. It's gone, and it might not come back, and somehow that thought is worse than all the rest. She's gone through lif blind, grasping at shadows, and been plunged into a sea of being able to see for the first time! And then had it cruelly cut off! And it's almost enough to make her wish she hadn't seen it, because she wouldn't be squinting into the near distance and trying to remember what color feels like!

"So why bother? You say we are dead men walking. Let us walk, if you feel so sure."

Don't look at Isty, Alexa. Don't check what she must be thinking, no matter how your head wants to turn. Don't ponder what her face must look like. That way lies thinking, and caring, and retreat, and accepting that this can't last, and going back.

She looks, and curses her own stupidity. Curses her inability to leave well enough alone. To just let things happen. She has to care, has to get involved. Has to try to make them happy.

Has to be Alexa, and damn her eyes for it.

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman taps Sasha on the calf, and she obligingly reaches down.

When did she get so big? It hasn't been that long since their journey started, surely? Time was, he barely fit inside her cockpit; to move was to get jabbed by some lever, dial, oddly placed bit of metal, and he'd come out with scales rubbed raw from the squeeze. Maybe that's why kobolds, after all--nobody larger could possibly fit in a nascent engine.

He hasn't had any missing patches of scales in a while now, has he?

Look at her! Tall, mighty, gleaming, big enough to scoop him up in one hand, cup him like a child against her. He wriggles closer, presses his back against her. Feels the familiar shifting of the coal in her firebox, the soft prickle of the water in her boiler, warms himself in the heat seeping through his overalls and into his scales.

"Amalgamation," he murmurs. "Take bits of the Heart, shove it into her DNA. Armor her, graft in enough of the Flood to save her from drowning in it. I remember."

What must Black Sasha look like? Warped--recognizably an engine, but more Heart than Machine, stealing elements of angels, clowns, flood, anything and everything to help her survive. Could he recognize his own Sasha in there? Would he want to?

Quietly, he pulls out the little rag, and sets to work brushing off the coal dust his overalls have left on Sasha. It's something to do, something meaningful, to keep his hands thinking.

"But to make the rails better?" He huffs a small, pained laugh. "Well, you and I both know we're no Carinadir. We might be able to set Wormwood straight with a time machine and seven lifetimes of work, but then it wouldn't be Wormwood, worm-would it?"

It's a lame joke, and neither of them laughs.

Frowning, Coleman dips the rag in the can of polish and studies the bronzed plate. "But... Well, it occurs to me that we might not be able to make the rails themselves better. But what about the trains? No, no, hang on, I getcha, I'm not talkin' about Amalgamation, lemme get at it..."

Y'see, every train is part of the Vermissian Line, see? Technically, they all follow the same codes and there's some agreed-upon regulations and practices set down by the ancients and revised as necessary. But every Engine and every Engineer knows the real score--every train is a line unto its own. It's an empire of one, with their enmities, borders, ancient feuds. And of course, everyone knows that their train is the best.

"What if--instead of meldin' our train to fit the Heart physically--we tried to bring the Engines together? Again, not amalgamation, but friendship-like? Come to another engine's aid if they're in need, sorta thing. Cooperate in ways that don't involve decidin' who's invadin' who's track. Sounds like in your future, we fracture. Every train for 'emselves, kill and steal an' cannibalize as needed and as can be done. If we can figure that out--how to unite the lines--ain't no war to be had, right?"

Breathless Dead

You couldn't scythe the knees out from under Alexa more effectively with a cannon.

That's it? You're giving up? You attacked her, attacked her friends, you're just--you can't just decide that the fight's over, not when she's brimming with all this energy! Her head pounds, her chest heaves, her fingers clench and unclench uselessly on the spearhaft. She needs to move, needs to swing! Come on! Stand and fight! Give her satisfaction!

Her spear digs angry sparks from the floor as she paces, eyes always on the assassin. Come on, you, make your move! Come on! You have to do it, because you haven't surrendered and she can't hit you if you're not fighting back! Can't vent this energy, can't keep going! And if she can't keep going!--

Her body sings with energy! And so long as she's moving, pushing, attacking, she can keep going. So long as there's a threat to fight, she doesn't have to think about the nicks, the scrapes. She can stave off the moment her body insists that she's exhausted, insists that things are wrong, that she should take a moment to think!--

Thinking is bad. She's spent all these centuries thinking, being careful, and look where that's got her! Keep it up. You can push through this. Aggression. Anger! So long as you keep moving, you don't need to go back! You can keep this, can keep riding that razor's edge of this being alright!

Because if this isn't alright, then she has to go back.

"To be fair, if you had come for Nero as you were, I would not have done so," she admits. "But I cannot allow you to hurt them. So what now?"

Breathless Dead

Two continents collide.

The floor, poor bastard, whines and shrieks as craters are created, gulleys are gashed, and molten sparks spilled with every blow. The armor oozes, the assassin strives to push past her.

And Alexa laughs. She'd have to be mad not to! Here, now, against she who is filled with Ares' bolstering might? You seek to harm those she cares about? You want to push past her? You should be worried about getting away!

Arms grab like pincers. Beads fly, and armor crumples up where she grabs. Is this what she's been denying herself? What is the price going to be?

She headbutts a ceremonial skull, sending shards pinwheeling across the kitchen, and grins at the assassin. "So. Looks like we have some time to kill. What got you into poor decisions like this?"

Fellowship: The Heart

There ought to be more fanfare to your first murder. The universe ought to hold its breath, the air full of tension at the possible decision, as it waits for him to choose a path through the future. Does he offer him life, or take that first step towards Black Coleman?

Indeed, as he kneels down besides himself, he can't help but feel vaguely insulted that it's so mundane. That it's so easy to help himself part the coarse hair, find the veins, grab the knife, and let the toxic sludge inside ooze onto the floor of the aquarium. Probably bad for the tile, that, his mind insists on chiming in. Better find a wet floor sign somewhere.

But... Well, he's uncomfortable with Black Coleman because he sees the path. He sees how he goes from himself to--well, himself, but with a patina of shame. Sees the logic. The emotions. Black Coleman is himself in ways he doesn't feel comfortable acknowledging.

And... Well, he did try to kill Sasha.

Lucien clowned! Ailee shattered! Jackdaw vanished! He can easily believe the first and last, but there was part of him that had even started to buy into Ailee's own beliefs about what would happen in the Heart.

"But do you remember this day? Are you here, in your memories? Is this a cycle we're starting here--the two of us, comin' back here and murderin' this poor jackass over an' over, and not changing a thing?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa has never felt so alive.

She is a fire! Every slab of stone sings with energy, every ornamental filigree must surely be streaming molten. Every step is forward--no phalanx to hold her back, nothing to stop her advance, nothing that could match her!

She is a song! Her every movement is grace, freed of thoughts of who she is, what she is, what others see her, how she must mold and fit what they wish. See her dance!

Careless! She should be terrified, concerned! Worried about the supports she's severing, worried about Isty! The moment a flurry of blows finally overwhelms the Aegis should put her to flight, but the thoughts won't come--refuse to come! Cower back into the mind with shame! See, now, the freedom denied her!

Honestly, she's pretty sure she's going to need help to unpack this. It's liberating! But confusing! There's no control! No defense! No concern for others! She is berserk, unleashed! It's glorious, beautiful!

And the most terrifying thing she's ever felt.

Fellowship: The Heart

It would almost be better if Black Coleman weren't so mundane.

Give a man an eyepatch, a pegleg, and it's so simple to build a story to fit him. This is a pirate, surely! A blackhearted terror of the rails, pillager of the defenseless, cannibal of lesser trains! You can tell yourself that this is but a twisted shadow of what might be, an impossibility made real through some quirk of the Heart. It's not you, not really.

But those eyes... they're the same eyes he sees every day in Sasha's gleaming mirror-polished surface. This isn't some cackling villain, some nightmare mirror-version. This isn't a madman, somone who's lost his soul. He looks in those eyes and sees, behind the coldness and the determination, the regret hiding there. This is a Coleman who knows what he's done, what he's become, and would do it again. He made choices with the knowledge he had. To modify Sasha or hope that she'd be strong enough without Wormwood to protect her. To carry on, to build a family even despite the difficulties. To build a crew who loved her as much as he did. To join in the war, when all other options had been exhausted.

Gods. War amongst trains. As if things weren't bad enough without a thousand tiny gods deciding that, Right, it's time to show that shiny new up-and-comer down the rail exactly where they are in the pecking order.

Black Coleman isn't even that older than he is, he realizes with a start. No missing scales, no sagging crests or dulled claws. He's got more scars, and the bags under his eyes speak of many missed nights of sleep, but he can't be more than maybe five years into the future.

"You don't want to do this." Not a question, not pleading. Simply a statement of something they both know. "You didn't want to do most of the rest, either."

He's made decisions, yes. Necessary ones, difficult ones.

Maybe the wrong ones?

"Tell me what happened. Tell me how to stop this."

[EDIT: Talk Sense, 8]

Breathless Dead

[wrong thread, no delete button, ignore]